Page 30 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Darcy had become too comfortable with the customs and machinations of mourning, of tucking in one’s own sorrow and standing tall and accepting the condolences of others.

There had always been someone to grieve over, to miss.

His grandparents, his infant siblings, his mother, his father. Aunt Joanna. Anne. Lady Catherine.

Now it was his turn to express sorrow and offer succour.

He felt his own grief, of course, but his acquaintance with Mr Bennet was of short, though profound, duration.

It had changed the direction of his future, created purpose where he needed one, and introduced him to the lady ideally made to be his wife, and who now relied on him for strength and support.

The awkwardness he had felt in the drawing room, immersed in the bleak familiarity of mourning black, red eyes, strained faces, and Mrs Bennet’s barely controlled furore had disappeared when Elizabeth cast an understanding gaze on him and invited him to join her for a private meeting.

If a heart could soar, his did. If clouds could lift from darkness, they did so.

Her face when they had entered the book room plunged him back into uncertainty.

As placid and sad as Jane had appeared, Elizabeth seemed to be the one lady in the drawing room who had remained rational, able to think and not just react with emotion.

But as she began to speak, such deep melancholy crossed her expression, he feared she would collapse.

He moved swiftly, pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly as his coat muffled her sobs.

His hand cradled her head and his lips, when not whispering consoling words and reassurances, gently brushed her hair.

“All will be well, Elizabeth?—”

Suddenly she pulled away from him, standing unsteadily as she wiped at her eyes. “I-what are you doing?”

“Forgive me, you were distressed.” He reached for his handkerchief and held it out to her

“You-I…” she glanced quickly at the door, open only a few inches. “You should not have held me.”

He pushed the handkerchief into her hand. “I feared you would collapse. Please, sit down.” Darcy pulled out the chair that, although it had become his own during his weeks here, truly belonged to Elizabeth.

She dabbed at her face and sat. “You had no right to hold me that way, to embrace me.”

Do I not? he wondered. Not yet, he cautioned himself.

“Forgive me. I wished only to bring you comfort. May I pour you some water?”

Elizabeth shook her head and seemed to collect her thoughts as they observed one another. She appeared exhausted, her usually vibrant expression drained and wan. He yearned to hold her again.

“I am deeply grieved about Mr Bennet. You were called home from the Gardiners?”

“Yes. Mary wrote to us that our father was ill. A persistent cough had quickly worsened and strained his heart and lungs. They remained weakened from a childhood illness.” She looked to the ground as she spoke. “The doctor said he did not suffer overmuch. ”

His hand touched her arm briefly, causing Elizabeth to look up and see the warm expression in his eyes. “Of that I am glad. I lost my own father some six years ago.” His voice trailed off. “Your uncle has been of assistance?”

“Yes, my uncle Gardiner was here, much to my mother’s relief.”

“You have been of enormous support as well to your mother and sisters, I am certain. Your company would have brought your father great comfort.”

Soothing as his words were, Darcy could not know how his soft expression and the tenderness in his voice unsettled her.

He watched as Elizabeth took a breath and, avoiding his direct gaze, forged on.

“Mr Darcy, I would be remiss if I did not express my family’s gratitude that you are come to pay respects to my father. ”

“Your father was my friend. You may thank me for all your family, but truly, I am here for you.”

“Me?” She looked at him oddly. “I thank you.” A deep breath seemed to settle the last of her ragged emotions. “I-I believe one or two of your books are here. Would you have any of my father’s?”

“Yes, they are at Netherfield. I shall return them tomorrow, if that is agreeable.”

“Yes, of course.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Darcy considered all he could say, the reassurances he could give her.

But he feared upsetting her, and lost in thought, he considered her, sitting there in that beloved spot, so small and so delicate, but her spirit so strong.

Though marked by sadness, her dark eyes were so fine, so rich in life, they glimmered even in the gloomy room.

“Mr Darcy?”

“Yes? Forgive my inattention.” He realised he had been staring at her and reddened slightly.

“What did you mean when you said you were truly here for me? ”

His expression softened. “I have come for you, as was planned.”

Elizabeth shattered their intimacy, nearly leaping from her chair to pace quickly to the window. “What is your meaning, sir?”

“My meaning?” Darcy stood as well, but remained fixed in place. He stopped speaking when he saw her stunned expression. “You truly do not know? Your father did not speak to you?”

Her expression of wariness matched his own.

“About our betrothal?”

“My father told you I would marry you? My father ?” Those fine sparkling eyes darkened with bewilderment. He watched as Elizabeth took a steadying breath. “This is farfetched, indeed, Mr Darcy. I believe I am due more explanation than this!”

“I...” He struggled to comprehend, let alone explain himself. “I was given to understand that my arrival, and my reasons for it, would not come as a surprise but would be expected.” Welcomed, he thought, gesturing to her empty chair. “Please, this will take a few minutes.”

When they were again seated, he began. “There is land, a small farm called Copperdale, acquired by your father outside of the entail. Its worth is less as farmland than as a water source for the town of St Albans. Your father had nearly forgotten it and knew nothing of its value. He needed to sell it and ensure the proceeds would go to his family.”

“Copperdale? The Wadham farm? You have purchased the land?”

“Yes.”

“You purchased it from my father in exchange for one of his daughters? For me?”

“No, of course not.”

Breathing shakily, her eyes narrowed. “My father sold you the rights to his land and to me?”

“No!” He raked a hand through his hair. “I have explained poorly. Your father safeguarded its value for his immediate family by selling it and removing it from his will and estate. Settlements for your mother and his daughters have been secured.”

“I see.” Did her tension ease the smallest bit?

“You have not met Mr Collins, but your father did not wish for you, the daughter closest to his heart and the one most capable of managing Longbourn, to marry him.” He watched as her eyes narrowed, but he could tell she was unsurprised at Mr Bennet’s sentiments.

“You are far superior to the man in mind and temperament. Your father would not see you unhappy.”

She closed her eyes briefly; when they reopened, Darcy saw renewed warmth, though he suspected it was more for hearing of her father’s wishes for her than it was for him and his unfortunately shocking news. He went on.

“Mr Bennet saw a similarity in our minds and noticed our partiality towards each other. He suspected you and I would be a good match, and despite the vast differences between us and family obstacles—my uncle is an earl, as you know—I realised it as well.”

Elizabeth gaped. She stared, coloured, and was silent for a moment. “Partiality?” she cried. “I have known you for but a few weeks in the autumn and now here again for a few minutes, and my feelings for you have grown no warmer.”

She was looking at him as though he were a talking dog. Darcy was beginning to feel like one as well but managed to meet her gaze and ask, “I…so they were not...you are not inclined towards me?”

“No.” Clearly, her astonishment had not left her. “I do not know you, Mr Darcy, and have not thought to know you better.”

It was as if he’d been slapped. Darcy felt heat rush to his face while cold tendrils of shock began to inch up his spine, into his chest; his tongue froze, unable to articulate the anger and disbelief coursing through him. What had Mr Bennet done? What had he done?

“Your father’s aim was to do what he could to make up for the neglect he had shown in planning for?—”

“None of this makes sense. He ran this estate poorly and failed to check his wife’s spending, but you tell me that he plotted with you a means to save Longbourn and keep my family solvent and keep my sisters free from objectionable marriages?

From entering into service? Why and how would he do that?

By what means did he convince you?” Her eyes widened.

“Or did you convince him? Did you checkmate him one too many times?”

He nearly laughed, despite his dismay. She was glaring at him, angry and incredulous, and still she made him laugh.

“No, I did not win you in a chess match. I apologise. I recognise the absurdity of what I have presented to you. It is ill-timed, my broaching the topic. Your father...he intended to speak to you about his plan. I thought he had done so.”

“He was near death when Jane and I arrived at Longbourn.”

“There was no letter from your father explaining things?”

She shook her head.

“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice could be heard in the corridor just outside the book room door.

They each stood up quickly.

“Here it is, Mr Darcy!” Elizabeth picked up a book from her father’s desk and thrust it into his hand.

He thought quickly as well and leaned his head down. “Meet me tomorrow morning. We must talk and come to an understanding. If we are not in agreement, I shall trouble you no further.”

With all politeness, he made a quick escape from the room, and from the house itself .

There was no escape for Elizabeth. Her mother questioned her closely on what Mr Darcy had collected from the book room, her younger sisters begged to hear any stories from town that Mr Darcy might have imparted, and Jane plainly thought there was more than a search for a borrowed book going on behind that door.

Mr Darcy’s shocking words, and her uncle’s reference to a plan and a letter tucked into one of Swift’s books drew her back into the book room.

It still smelled of her father’s pipe, his books, his leather chair.

She walked to the window and closed it, desperate for the room to retain its familiar scent as long as possible.

Then it was to the shelves, which while never orderly to the unfamiliar eye of her uncle or sisters, had a pattern well-established to her.

The books on the shelves were not of current reading for Mr Bennet; he kept those stacked beside the window seat or on the desk or on the table by his chair.

As her uncle had, Elizabeth found Gulliver’s Travels on the shelf, and Drapier’s Letters on a stack beside the sofa.

But neither were notable for anything but the occasional bookmark.

Jane sought out her company and smiled wanly in the doorway.

Elizabeth knew her sister’s heartache over their father was compounded by her worries over Mr Collins and Mr Bingley.

Miss Bingley’s perfunctory note of sympathy acknowledging Mr Bennet’s death had done little to assuage Jane’s tender heart or their mother’s fretting over the kind, handsome, rich, and inconveniently missing Mr Bingley.

Despite her own burdens, Jane tucked away her curiosity and waited until evening to curl up beside Elizabeth, brush out her hair, and make her enquiries.

“It was kind of Mr Darcy to come to Longbourn. Mama was quite pleased he called here before ending his journey at Netherfield.”

“Mr Darcy is all goodness,” Elizabeth replied. “As Mama said so at least six times after he left. ”

“Lizzy! It speaks well to his character that he respected Papa so much.”

“Yes, Jane.” After a week of feeling bereft and worried, the emotions that Mr Darcy bestirred were almost welcome. Shock, anger, and curiosity warred within her.

Why would he come here and say these things? My father, promise me in marriage? And to a man he knew I disliked? Who scarcely found me tolerable?

“What news did Mr Darcy bring to upset you?”

Jane’s voice was soft but her question was pointed.

Elizabeth wondered how to even begin telling her sister what had occurred in the book room earlier today, or what had allegedly been discussed and plotted in there weeks ago.

She could scarce believe a word said by Mr Darcy as its particulars were so foreign to her conception of her father and the very idea of an arranged marriage so at odds with the life she had imagined for herself.

A secret betrothal, linked to a secret estate, planned by two men with an acquaintance younger than her aunt’s new-born son?

How had her father kept such secrets? What more would Mr Darcy say to her?

Marry him? A man she scarcely knew? She could not make sense of it.

Her father making plans for his family by marrying her off to his worthy, wealthy chess opponent?

It was the work of great imagination. Was it her father’s idea or that of Mr Darcy?

Where, she thought suddenly, was the proof that her father had expressed these wishes?

In the letter her uncle referred to, the letter she could not find?

But he would not have made such an agreement—would he?

Despite the sincerity with which Mr Darcy had explained the situation, she could not believe it.

Our partiality? She remembered the gentleness in his voice and the relief she had felt, albeit briefly, in his arms.

“Lizzy?”

“It was less his words, his expressions of grief, than his presence there in the book room where he had spent so many days with my father,” she said, unwilling to distress her sister when she herself understood so little about Mr Darcy’s purpose or his declaration or her own feelings on either.

“Suddenly, I realised I shall never again see Papa in his chair, peering at me over his spectacles to comment on the latest chapter of silliness in the neighbourhood.” Her throat closed around the sorrow of this truth.

Jane sank to the mattress. “Whatever shall we do without him?”

Elizabeth, fatigued after another long day of mourning and worry, lay down beside her sister and closed her eyes. She could not imagine she would sleep; too many thoughts filled her mind.